Genealogy
by jaqueline-littlebird
Summary: Tony Stark suffers from housing his slightly deranged great-great-[insert many more 'great' here]-grandparent Loki. Movie AU based on the myth that Loki once worked as a milkmaid and bore children. Plotless crackfic. Rated for mentions of past deaths and other horrors.


A/N: Written for a prompt on Norsekink LJ based on the myth that Loki spent years working as a milkmaid and bore children then. Tony Stark is one of their descendants.

Disclaimer: Marvel characters are under copyright by Marvel, Norse gods by Snorri Sturluson if applicable. I don't make money with this. (Seriously, who would pay to read this stuff? I don't even get reviews, usually.)

* * *

**Genealogy**

_„I am Anthony Howardsson, grandson of Edward the mill-owner, great-grandson of Lawrence the locksmith who improved the mechanics of the repeating rifle ..."_

Tony tried to focus. Like many wealthy Americans, he had long ago hired a researcher to track down his family tree, down to the last and lowliest Sicilian mafioso, Narragansett beaver fur salesman, transported Sussex sheep rapist or what-you-have. Never before had anyone demanded of him to memorise the whole shebang, though. Besides, his stomach was so full it hurt.

The god of mischief ('grampa') beamed at him, kissed his forehead, rocked him on his knees some more and drew the plate with fruit and cheese closer.

_„That's good, Tony. I'm proud of you. Of course I'm proud of you in any case, mind you!"_ That insanely happy smile again. The god pressed another morsel of buttered walnut bread with Appenzeller cheese to Tony's lips, and he didn't dare refuse._ „Dear child, your inventions are impressive. What a fight you put up – you could have disarmed me, given some time to prepare properly, I'm sure. One day, maybe we will play at that."_

Sure. Tony was so looking forward to that day. Right now, he was looking forward to an espresso and a digestive bitter. He was getting drowsy, but he had to carry on.

_„ … son of Stoneface Stark who won the Battle at the Kleinschmidts' Fence with his heavy artillery. He suffered from facial nerve paralysis, hence the moniker."_

The deranged god hummed while rocking him. Tony got through some more of the relatively well-recorded history without incident, in the poetic way the Aesir preferred, listing war heroes who had fought for the US of A, for England, France, Hesse and/or the Iroquois, and sometimes against one another; of coal mine owners who had worked thousands to death (some members of the Kieva Rus branch of the family among them, as he knew now); a heartless shipowner whose coffin ships one some-great-grandmother from the Irish part of the family had barely survived, but two uncles not; of deaths in childbed, from typhoid, diphtheria, falling from horses; of witch-hunts and infantile paralysis.

_„ … son of Archibald the barrister, immigrant from Salisbury, England, who married the lady Temperance Maywine ..."_ He burped, then hickuped._ „May … Mayflower. Who … who survived her first winter by eating her sister, aunt Humility, who had starved, aged fourteen."_ End of reciting half-unconsciously. He was officially going to be sick at this point.

_„You poor darlings! That is all my fault. I should have looked after you all this time. But worry not – I'm here now to take care of you. Grape?"_

* * *

The rightful king of Midgard (office currently suspended) paced his halls (or rather Toni's) restlessly, blaming himself. How could he have been so thoughtless? He had overworked the dear child. Overfed him too, apparently. The boy needed his rest now. How to apologize? And how to prevent such incidents in the future?

He'd been tempted to whip the servants, but Toni had opposed that earlier on numerous occasions, on the grounds that training new ones was a hassle. Besides, it was not really their fault – not their place to tell the king and crown prince when enough was enough.

If he was honest with himself, his overfeeding little Toni had happened only because the food had been so truly excellent. Filets de Perche with lemon-butter, fries and salad, he would remember that dish. No matter the boy had grumbled about straw-thin fries, fish not worth the effort when the filets were just thumb-sized, and had bemoaned the lack of burgers.

(The one time his man Clint had brought burgers to him, Loki had been ready to kill him on the spot. Good thing Erik had talked him out of it. The man per se would not have been a loss, quite the opposite. Come to think of it, what kind of fool would employ a travelling jester as a battle strategist? But dear Natasha would have missed him.)

Personally, Loki loved the cuisine of Switzerland. Particularly the custom of offering cheese and fruit as an additional course after dessert. Of course a god could stomach that selection on top of a large helping of Tiramisu. The mortals seemed to have limits to their stomachs, lacking subspace connection for direct energy transfer. If only he had known …

But then, the family history had distracted him. Each time he delved into that, sadness so grave gripped his heart that he needed to cheer himself up by pampering his far descendents.

His far descendents the dearest of whom he'd nearly killed back then in Stuttgart. Toni the Man of Iron, Midgard's greatest warrior. Besides, the only Earthling able to withstand the mindgem in his sceptre (or 'glowstick of destiny', as the boy humourously dubbed it).

For all of Midgard's great technology, magic was still far superior. Not that the tech lacked merits. Midgard's weapons were remarkable. Some nuclear missiles, cast through a well-controlled portal as soon as he'd come to an understanding with SHIELD, had taken care of Thanos, that one's minions and their sorry realm. Good riddance.

What gave the king of Midgard greatest joy amongst the mortals' sciences, though, was the polymerase chain reaction. In other words: genetic tracking, finding relatives, the living and those long gone. They had checked samples from many a skeleton in museums to establish a family tree.

What odd customs the mortals had, Loki mused. Displaying a worthy enemy's severed head, he could get that. But digging up some peasant's remains whose very name was long forgotten, to show them to the public? Worse yet, the mortals air-dried their late kings, salted them and wrapped them in linens. The thought of one day hanging in an attic like salami in a sack was what had finally convinced the god not to push his claim for the throne further after the initial quarrels. He'd made a mental note never to visit Cairo where his preserved predecessors' storeroom stood.

No point in ruling ants and mayflies. The god of mischief had much better things to do. These past months, he had done his best to work with scientists, read up on Midgard's history, and get in touch with all his many offspring.

Long ago, in the carefree days of his youth, the Allfather – after some prank – had banished him to Midgard in the female shape he'd been in then. The mortals had been so impressed they'd built a circle of big stones around the bifröst site, which even stood there still, quite touching. He'd taken pity on them then, taught them how to tame the pigs and aurochs, milk cows, make cheese, weave cloth and fishing nets, smelt tin and copper from the ore for tools and swords, kettles and jewellery.

Oh, they had revered him (her). The dalliances she had had, ostensibly to bless the fields … 'Dancing around the maypole', as they'd called it … The Allfather of course refused to admit half-mortals to Asgard, and back then, Loki had still been desperate for the Gallows God's affection, so he had left his children once the banishment timed out. Better not to think about the old codger now, that still upset him too much. Or at least the healer he saw on occasion said so. Loki tended to agree.

His mortal children had suffered like everyone else on this poor planet, but done well enough, all things considered. Most had stayed there in the south of that same island and proliferated. Among their descendents were farmers, craftsmen, actors, a famous playwright, and even a renowned group of Knights of the Holy Grail (whatever that was, but it sounded more impressive than 'Warriors Three').

Some family members had been abducted by Thor-worshippers in days long past, all over the place, to Ireland, Iceland, and establishing the eastern or Varangian family branch from which Natasha hailed. Vladimir too, who would visit next week for the World Economic Forum.

Thinking about the impending event gave Loki a new idea. He was really getting better now. The spark was back – creative madness, as they called it.

_„Toni? Toni, dearheart! There you are."_

The inventor groaned and pulled the blanket over his head.

_„Don't sulk, please. You know I'm sorry. I'll pay more attention, and work on my healing magic, promise. Dearheart, I just had a great idea. Why don't we invite all the family for a family dinner? It's high time; I haven't even met everyone yet. See, if you weld a raclette grill together, large enough for everyone, with forms of appropriate size for a mortal's appetite, nothing could go wrong, yes? Rest now; you'll be well tomorrow and we'll work together on this then. You will enjoy the feast, you'll see."_ He ruffled the superhero's hair.

Tony put the cushion on his face and punched it with his fist.

* * *

A/N 2: I'm fairly sure Tony must own a mansion in Davos, Switzerland. If not for the WEF, then surely he visits the same detoxification clinic Keith Richards goes to by his own admission. That one being Tony's house closest to Stuttgart, they took residence there. Good thing Barton never mentioned Neuschwanstein castle to Loki.


End file.
